


Cocktopath PML

by asics



Series: Cocktopath [1]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Light-Hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asics/pseuds/asics
Summary: The gang settles down at an inn for the night and Therion heads out to the town for rumors.





	Cocktopath PML

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly wrote this for my friends who enjoy my short crack fics (all of which have goofy titles). PML is the first of the Cocktopath series I'm writing for fun. Hope you enjoy!

“This feeling never gets old.” The springs croaked under the newly added pressure; floorboards groaned as footsteps made their way across them. The room was as average as could be, but of course none would ever amount to the glamour in Atlasdam. As expected of the city someone as pompous and sophisticated as Cyrus resided in. “Ahhh,” Olberic sighed as he kicked his boots off. “Wake me if a ruckus arises.”

Primrose let down her hair and combed her fingers through to detangle her strands and rid herself of stray clumps of mud within them. “Will do,” she answers with a hum.

“Don’t bother me, though,” Therion grumbles, picking himself up off the floor and striding towards the door. “I’m going into town for food and rumors.”

“Bye bye!” Alfyn waves to the closed door and turns back to his pile of materials on his bed. “Now where was I?”

“What kind of ruckus are we talking about?” Tressa asks, peering over the trinkets Alfyn has laid out.

Primrose chuckles. “Probably one Therion causes.”

Tressa’s eyes widen. “Do you think we should bring him back?”

“Thou shan’t worry,” H’aanit grins, kneeling down to meet eyes with the young merchant. “Therion ist a skillful young man. If trouble should befall him, his blade shall protect himself.”

“How are your wounds, Master Olberic?”

Olberic smiles warmly at the gentle touch of Miss Ophelia. “They’re healing much faster thanks to young Alfyn’s medical attention.”

Said cleric pulls up the warrior’s sleeve and examines the gash upon his shoulder. “I suggest we rest here for a few days to let your shoulder heal.”

“I’ll be fine, you worry too much,” the man protested.

“I will not let you step foot outside of this town until you are fully able to hold up your shield properly.”

Alfyn peeks around the hunter and the merchant to catch a glimpse of the wound. “Y’know, she’s right, sir. We shouldn’t strain your body too much.”

H’aanit nods her head. “Should thou refuse to taketh heed, thy may prove to becometh a weight in battle.”

Olberic smiles gently at the group fussing over his wellbeing. Closing his eyes, Olberic let the comfort of the bed take him over. “Hm. We shall see.”

 

⌘

 

Therion pulled his tattered scarf up to cover his nose when the cold, stiff air breathed across his face. “Stupid snow,” he huffed.

The thief watched on with his hand stuffed deep into his thin pockets at the people hustling and bustling about in search for warmth as the sun began to set. Eyes scanning his surroundings quickly, he looked for a certain signpost. _Tavern, tavern,_ he thought as his eyes jumped from post to post. _Provisioner, armorer, notice board—_ “aha!”

He walked briskly over to the bar where the orangey hue of light poured out of the windows, painting the pristine white snow with a honey-like color. Once he swung the door open, the warmth of the insulated brick walls devoured his skin in one swift wave. He shuffled over to the seat located at the very end of the bar and, conveniently, right next to the fireplace. Therion hunched over the wooden counter, resting his head in the palm of his hand. He raised the other rather flippantly to summon the barkeep.

“What’ll it be, my good gentleman?” The barkeep asks, polishing the inside of a glass with a dishrag.

“Northern Cider,” he grumbles into his palm, carefully glancing around him. Some villagers have lost themselves to song and dance while others fell eagerly to sleep with flushed faces. Looking back at the barkeep to monitor how he’s preparing his drink, he notes a medium glass jar filled halfway with leaves and coin. He takes one more peek at the individuals around him and, noting their ignorance, quickly swipes a hand in and snatches a couple bills. The barkeep then began to pour the shaken drink into a glass, and Therion taps the counter twice firmly. “On the rocks.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The bartender corrects the order and slides the finished concoction across the counter over to the thief who catches it simply in his free hand. He raised the glass lamely in thanks.

“You’re kidding! You saw him?!”

Therion’s ears perk up at the excited squeals from two young ladies chatting freely. “Yes! And he’s even hotter in person, Fe!”

“You’re totally lying!”

“I’m not! He’s staying at the inn! Let’s go, I’ll show you--”

“Ah! Nala, no! We can’t bother him!”

“Fe, he’s a noble! He’s probably used to girls asking to meet him!”

Then, a third maiden joins in. “Pardon me, but are you talking about Sir Olberic?”

Nala turns, smile wide. “Yes! Did you see him too?”

“Oh, by the flame! Yes, I actually sold him some armor!”

“ _No way!_ ” Fe exclaims, swatting the third lady with the back of her hand. “You’re such a liar!”

“I’m not! My father owns the armor shop!”

“Oh you’re so lucky,” Nala sighs, slumping into her chair. “Did you get to talk to him?”

“Oh yes,” the armorer’s daughter says proudly. “He even asked for my name!” The three girls squeal in giddiness. “You two should’ve seen the _sword_ he’s _wielding,_ if you know what I mean.”

Fe and Nala lean in as the daughter began to hush her tone. “Is he big? He looks big,” asks Nala.

The daughter grins smugly. “We had to make him a custom plated codpiece because our largest was ‘a bit snug,’”

Fe and Nala clench their fists and shake them obnoxiously, sqweeing with toothy grins and tightly shut eyes. “Oh, tell me you fitted him!”

The armorer’s daughter sighs. “No, unfortunately my brother did that instead. I, however, finalized the transaction; meaning I packaged the codpiece and exchanged words with him at checkout!”

This time, all three squeal.

Therion’s eye twitches in irritation as his attention refuses to direct itself elsewhere. _Ugh. Instead of rumors of fat treasures, you wanna focus on Olberic’s stupid fanbase,_ he thinks to himself.

“If only my man was as blessed as Sir Olberic,” Nala deflates, sinking into her chair.

Fe snides. “If only I _had_ a man.”

The armorer’s daughter chuckles into her palm. “I couldn’t care less about the men of this town.” The two girls agree with a subtle nod of the head. “Frankly, all I can think of right now is how badly I need Sir Olberic to pound my liver!”

The three girls erupt into laughter and Therion has had enough. After chugging the remainder of his glass, Therion slams down his, save for a few ice cubes, empty glass and tosses a few stolen leaves towards the bartender. He then rewinds his scarf around his neck, pulls the ends of his poncho closed and marches towards the door and back to the inn.

 

⌘

 

Primrose removes the small elastic from her lips and wraps it around the fistful of hair she holds, tying Tressa’s hair into a high ponytail. “There you go, darling,” she hums. “Now your hair won’t get in your eyes.”

Tressa quickly lifts the small handheld mirror and looked at her new hairdo. “Thanks, Primrose! I look cute, like you!”

Primrose smiles warmly and pulls the young merchant into her lap, embracing her tightly. “You’re much cuter than me, sugar.”

Then, towards the entrance of the room, a loud bang reverberates throughout the suite followed by grumbling and heavy steps. Sister Ophelia rose from her place beside Olberic and turns to Therion immediately. “Is something the matter?”

Therion shoves his cloth off his shoulders and onto the floor, stomping his way around the corner and into Olberic’s room. “YEAH,” he yells, “HE’S THE MATTER!”

Primrose gently nudged Tressa off her lap and cautiously makes her way towards the commotion. “Speak, Therion. You’re not making sense.”

“I CAN’T EVEN HAVE A DECENT DRINK BECAUSE OF THIS GUY!”

Ophelia places a gentle palm on the thief’s arm. “What do you mean? He was here with us while you left.”

The honorable Olberic shifts from his lying position to a seated one on the edge of his bed. Ophelia hurried around the angered thief to help the warrior as he groaned against the pain in his arm. He bids her a quiet thank you before looking up to meet Therion’s gaze. “Please allow me to apologize for arousing such an issue,” he says generally. “But could you further explain what I have done?”

Therion crosses his arms and huffed. “As much as I’d _love_ to, I don’t feel very comfortable talking about it.”

Olberic and the others looked at the thief quizzically. “Well, that’s unfair,” Alfyn chimes in.

Olberic raises a hand towards the young apothecary and asks for his silence with a nod. “Forgive him,” he begins, referring to Alfyn. “Would you rather speak in private?”

Therion rolls his eyes and laughs incredulously. “There’s no point whether or not they hear! It’s these girls— this fucking town!”

“What has the town done? Is my presence here causing a stir?” Olberic pinches his chin with his thumb and forefinger, resting his elbow atop his knee.

“No— I mean, yes! That stupid, vulgar armorer you spoke with! She’s—“

“Yes?”

“AUGH! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!”

Olberic then rises to his feet, placing both hands on Therion’s shoulders, looking down at the young thief. “Please, I need to know what is going on.”

Therion shuts his eyes tightly and balls his fists as he gathers the courage to relay the conversation he heard. “DICK THIS, COCK THAT, ALL ANYONE’S TALKING ABOUT IS YOUR MEAT!” The room fell silent as Therion yelled at the top of his lungs. “ _‘POUND MY LIVER, SIR OLBERIC’_ ” the thief mocked, repeating what the armorer’s daughter had said in a squeaky, girly voice.

The warrior’s face flushed a vibrant red, his body warming in embarrassment. Primrose and H’aanit let out a burst of laughter, keeling over in amusement.

Therion turned over his shoulder and pointed at the girls. “FUCK YOU! IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

Cyrus sat silently in his original corner where he set up his tomes and other materials, his pupils dilated into tiny pencil-tipped dots. “L-liver...? Is that even possible...”

Tressa looked to Alfyn, who sat wide-eyed and staring at his things. “Alfyn, what’s so funny?”

Alfyn covered Tressa’s ears in a panic, his face beginning to tint pink as well. “N-NOTHING’S FUNNY!”

Therion shoves the warrior’s hands off of him, making the older man wince in pain a little. Ophelia pushes past her shock and motions for Olberic to retake his seat on the bed. “You must rest, as much as...possible.”

Olberic slips back under the covers. Beginning to turn to his side in an attempt to hide, he stops and reaches out to Therion. “My _deepest_ apologies, young Therion.”

Said man swats the calloused hand away from him and mutters _don’t touch me_ sharply under his breath.

“We shall depart this town in the morn’. I suggest we _all_ prepare for an early slumber and rise.”

Primrose swipes a stray tear from her eye while supporting H’aanit’s shaking-from-laughter frame with her shoulder. “Yes, sir, big dick warrior, SIR!”

Therion groans loudly again and stomps past the girls and into a separated room, slamming yet another door that night.


End file.
